had any terrors for me. But I have a strange reluctance to leave Europe, which I cannot understand. I fear that deep down in my heart is the desire to avoid George's disapprobation. Also, I am really fond of Chilton Thurber. I see that I am reasoning in a circle, so I will cease.
Life is not all sunshine, even for those who have royal blood in their veins. One of the young nephews of the Emperor is dead. Mourning comes alike to all of us.
Grace had a desire to see the funeral procession passing across the river from the palace to the fortress, and I consented to go with her, feeling that nothing could make my spirits any lower. We ordered the carriage and started.
The snow was thawing, and the streets were full of a dirty slush. Instead of the rain alternating with snow, which has fallen persistently for the last two weeks, the air was impregnated with a gray mist, which settled on the river where we stood, and permitted us only to distinguish the faint outlines of the lofty palaces on the bank. We waited for several minutes before we heard, through the fog, which seemed to muffle the sound, the weird music which betokened the approach of the procession.
Gradually they drew nearer. Through the lines of soldiers which bordered the road came a regiment of lancers, the arms and flag of the house, the pages and servants, each bearing a lighted candle. A crowd of priests, numbering not less than one hundred, followed
